


Set You on Safe Shores

by antimonyandthyme



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), M/M, Post-Canon, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:53:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26540959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antimonyandthyme/pseuds/antimonyandthyme
Summary: “I heard Shiratorizawa’s looking to hire.”Ushijima chokes, nearly dropping his phone in the process. It already has a thin scratch on the back running down from the topmost corner, bisecting theApplelogo in two, courtesy of Oikawa’s obnoxious ring chain holding the spare key he’d given to Ushijima. “You’re joking, right? That’s very funny.”“No,” Oikawa counters, sounding like he’s actually thinking about it. “There’s no reason why I can’t coach baby eagles.”“Eaglets,” Ushijima interjects faintly.
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Comments: 10
Kudos: 167





	Set You on Safe Shores

Two weeks after they retire, it happens, in a convenience store of all places. There’s a rerun of a friendly between the Panthers and Stings, showing on the tiny TV the clerk’s set up strategically in the middle of the store for patrons but mostly within his line of sight. Kubiak spikes a perfectly set ball right down the line, and Ushijima feels it clawing out from the bottom of his gut, wild and ugly. He drops the bread he was supposed to buy, throat inexplicably tight, and stumbles out of the store and back into the car. 

Oikawa startles at his haphazard entrance, but Ushijima doesn’t say anything, just crams himself in between the steering wheel and the seat with his head down. 

“Okay,” Oikawa is saying, voice tight with something bordering on alarm. “Deep breaths. With me, Wakatoshi.” His hand finds the back of Ushijima’s neck, palm calloused and firm. “Deep breaths. Hospital?”

Ushijima jerks his head in such a vigorous motion that he throws Oikawa’s hand off. He grabs blindly onto Oikawa’s knee, as if it doesn’t matter which part of them is touching, so as long as one part is. “I’m fine,” he manages to croak out. 

“You,” Oikawa decides angrily, “are not fine. Get the hell out of the driver’s seat, I’m taking you to—”

“Talk to me.”

“Talk to—” Oikawa stops short. “You want me to talk you through a breakdown? What do I say?” And now he does sound hysterical, panicked and so terribly concerned that Ushijima almost laughs. He never thought he’d see the day. 

“Anything. Just say anything.”

Oikawa opens his mouth, shuts it, then opens it again. He makes a couple of false starts, _uhms_ and all, before he curls his fingers resolutely around Ushijima’s wrist on his knee. “When I first met you—”

Ushijima snorts. “You hated me, yes.”

Oikawa squeezes his wrist, hard enough to hurt. “Do you want me to talk or no?”

“Sorry,” Ushijima says, already feeling his lungs expand at the familiarity of Oikawa’s annoyance. “Keep going. Please.”

“When I first met you, I thought you looked a lot like Tetsujin-28-go. I’ve seriously considered bleaching my hair out, but I didn’t want to have to do my eyebrows to match. My knee still hurts on some days. Even when I’m just walking. And I know your ankle does too. I forgot about the muffins you got me for breakfast once and they got mouldy and I never told you because I didn’t want you to think I—didn’t like the muffins. I stopped wanting you to keel over in a court and die the moment we were out of high school, but I kinda pretended for a year more.”

“Two years,” Ushijima corrects.

“I’m talking here,” Oikawa reminds, and Ushijima promptly shuts up. He strokes the backs of Ushijima’s knuckles, fingertips running deliberately over each knob, and Ushijima shudders, aching suddenly for a very different reason.

“I know what it feels like when all the things you want are taken from you,” Oikawa continues softly. “I know what it’s like to question your existence outside of the court.”

“I don’t know what I am now,” Ushijima admits, and to anybody else it might have been a show of unacceptable weakness. But Oikawa knows, doesn’t he, the exact number of sutures Ushijima's had from the operation, and in turn Ushijima knows the exact location where they took tissue from Oikawa’s thigh so they could reconstruct his ACL—and it’s no longer about weaknesses between the two of them. It hasn’t been for a long time. 

“We’ll figure it out,” Oikawa says. He nods to himself once, then at Ushijima. They do some complicated switching manoeuvre in the confined space of the car, Oikawa crawling above him, limbs splayed across the dashboard, and Ushijima sliding under to reach the passenger seat. Oikawa buckles him in. “Alright? Let’s figure it out.”

Ushijima closes his eyes, nods back. And let’s Oikawa drives him home.

\--

The trick, he decides early on, is to keep busy. 

He allows himself barely a month of doing absolutely nothing at all, minus the obsessive pruning he performs on his already over-pruned plants, before he blows the dust off his sports medicine degree and applies to some physical rehabilitation centres in the area. And then he gets accepted, ridiculously quickly, as an occupational therapist’s assistant in a clinic a fifteen-minute train ride from his place. And coincidentally, a ten-minute bicycle ride from Oikawa's.

“Well of course,” Oikawa says in the kind of tone that suggests he thinks Ushijima’s being a little thick. “You think anyone would pass up on an opportunity to revel in the fact that Olympic medalist Ushijima Wakatoshi works as an OT for them? It’s practically free marketing. Their client list will triple.”

Ushijima considers the roundabout compliment and grows warm. “I’m just an assistant. You need a professional degree to be an OT.”

“Pfft,” Oikawa says, unbothered. Ushijima imagines the precise way he shrugs and rolls his eyes, even with a phone cupped between his ear and shoulder. “Go be boring and go back to school then.”

“What are you doing?”

Oikawa _hmms_. “Coach, probably.”

“Where?”

“I heard Shiratorizawa’s looking to hire.”

Ushijima chokes, nearly dropping his phone in the process. It already has a thin scratch on the back running down from the topmost corner, bisecting the _Apple_ logo into two, courtesy of Oikawa’s obnoxious ring chain holding the spare key he’d given to Ushijima. Spare keys and questions and a general lack of understanding in Oikawa’s _absurd_ choice in schools, even now; Ushijima doesn’t need a cracked screen to add on top of all that. “You’re joking, right? That’s very funny.”

“No,” Oikawa counters, sounding like he’s actually thinking about it. “There’s no reason why I can’t coach baby eagles.”

“Eaglets,” Ushijima interjects faintly. “You’re, uh. You’re serious?”

“All those years you spent trying,” Oikawa says, and Ushijima can here the amusement in his voice now, because this is a long dead horse between the two of them that they still enjoy beating from time to time. “And now you _don’t_ want me there?”

“You’re saying that all this time, the only thing I had to do to win you over was to retire?”

There’s a strange pause. “Maybe,” Oikawa says vaguely, as if he’s harbouring a secret, clutched close and tight like a ball between taped fingers. Ushijima waits, ready to receive— _always ready_ —but Oikawa only laughs, bright and sharp, before he ends the call.

\--

She’s waiting for him outside the clinic when his shift ends. Ushijima stops, unsure and a little blindsided, blinking at her like a deer caught in some metaphorical headlight. 

“I figured this was the easier way to get my intentions across,” Aki says pleasantly. She’s lovely; tall, tanned from hours under the sun playing tennis, with the nicest of smiles. Hiroshi Sensei sees her twice a week for the unfortunate rotator cuff tendonitis that sprung up after her summer training, while Ushijima stands to one side, taking notes and generally being awkward at conversation. “Since I’ve been dropping hints all month which I don’t think you’ve picked up on.”

As sad as it sounds, Tendou’s coached him through situations such as these, interactions with fans and journalists alike after he’d determined Ushijima to be too stiff in interviews. _If all else fails_ , Tendou had concluded exasperatedly, _blow them away with your incredible sense of humour._

“I’ve heard,” he tries haltingly, “that patience is a virtue.”

Aki’s laugh breaks the tension somewhat, and she suggests dinner at Ichiran nearby. Ramen’s a good a place to start as any, but all Ushijima can think about is how long it takes to finish a bowl of soup, and how it’s already a little past six, and how he’s due at the game Oikawa’s overseeing because he promised to show up. 

“Coffee, perhaps,” he offers, hoping she doesn’t take offense. “I’ve got a match I have to be at in an hour.”

She grins however, seemingly delighted to hear he’s still involved. Ushijima rarely knows how to react when people around him talk about volleyball. Sometimes they tiptoe around the subject of his retirement, and other times they go on about his glory days in a way that’s surely meant to be complimentary, but only leaves him feeling devastatingly wanting. But Aki steers talk away from injuries or days gone by and asks after his teammates instead.

“My setter is. I mean. Oikawa-san is doing well. He’s coaching tonight. That’s where I’m going after.”

Aki nods, encouragingly. 

So Ushijima continues, finding the words easily when they’re centered around someone else. Someone else specific, a part of him acknowledges, someone his thoughts stray to constantly. “It’s his first game as coach, and I want him to do well,” he confesses. “Even though I think he took up the post at Shiratorizawa just to spite me.”

“Did he really?” Aki’s smile is oddly knowing. 

_Did he really_ , Ushijima wonders, even as he watches from the stands. Oikawa looks confident and at ease supplying instruction from the sidelines. He stands out, as he always does, but mostly because he’s dressed in a contrasting light blue shirt to the team’s white and purple.

 _Bastard_ , Ushijima can’t help but sigh, even though it’s tinged with so much fondness his chest is tight from it. 

He catches Oikawa’s eye during half-time. Oikawa winks.

\--

_Gone out for a run_ , Oikawa’s note reads. _Because I keep in shape unlike you._

He huffs. It’s just like Oikawa to poke fun at him even when he’s not even physically there. Work’s been busy, but he makes a match once every week at least, and stays behind with Oikawa to demonstrate serves and receives.

Oikawa radiates smugness as the entire Shiratorizawa team stares on in wonderment, practically vibrating out of their skins. “ _The_ ace and _the_ setter training us,” one of the kids had gasped out last week, and it made Ushijima pause. People still refer to them as that, even after all this time, as if they were a paired deal, never to be found apart from each other. 

There is truth in that, Ushijima supposes, as he deposits the milk break carefully on Oikawa’s counter, stealing a banana in return. The ace would be lost without the setter. 

_Call me next time_ , he writes back. _We’ll see who’s in shape then_.

Absently, he slips the key (obnoxious chain and all) back into his pocket, where it’ll continue to scratch up his phone. Ushijima can’t find it in him to mind. 

\--

“Do you ever feel like you’re waiting for something, but you have no idea what it is?”

Reon’s eyebrows rise instantly. “Shirabu’s usually the one asking philosophical questions. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Ushijima exhales, frustrated. “Everything seems fine. Nothing’s wrong.” There’re sandwiches between them, dainty, fancy things with honey drizzled over the ham, courtesy of the only café in the area which could be open at six, but Ushijima doesn’t feel like eating. 

Reon nudges the plate toward him, insistent. “Then why does it sound like you’re assuming otherwise?” he asks kindly, voice warm and reminiscent of a time when most things were easier. He’d taken an hour out of his precious allocated sleep schedule to meet before he needs to rush back into A&E, he’s still wearing his white coat, and yet he’s here, making Ushijima eat breakfast, and it’s early, way too bloody early, but Ushijima feels something prickle at his eyes.

“Because I thought retirement would be more difficult,” Ushijima says, thinking back to the first overwhelming moment in the carpark where he believed the uncertainty of the future would break him. “I thought I’d be left out to sea. That I wouldn’t be able to move forward. But I have a job that I like. I’m helping people. I have—friends.” 

Reon inclines his head solemnly, his gaze accepting and open. And Ushijima finds it in him to admit, “But it doesn’t feel enough. It feels like I’m being greedy.”

“You’re allowed to be,” Reon says sternly. He grasps Ushijima’s shoulder, shakes him a little for emphasis. “Wakatoshi. You’re allowed to want things. Is that why you never called Aki back?”

Ushijima blinks. Aki’s bright and they get along. Conversation is easy between them, sportsperson to sportsperson. She hadn’t shown him any hostility after he declined meeting her a second time, only given him that knowing smile. She really is lovely.

“No,” Ushijima says slowly. “That’s not why.”

Reon chuckles then, eyes glinting almost mischievously. “You know you’re permitted to date people, right, or have you forgotten you no longer have training five times a week and that therefore no longer works as an excuse?”

“I’m not making excuses,” he protests, but it sounds weak even to him. Thirty-five, and still receiving dating advice from his schoolmates. He should be mortified, but perhaps this is the Universe reminding him that some things won’t be changed even by time, and he allows himself to draw comfort from that. 

“Then why?”

Ushijima thinks. _Really_ thinks, pushes past doubt and inertia and apprehension and thinks. Back to the hand on the back of his neck as he sat in the stuffy car breathing through his fears, back to the calls, the weekly practices because they still can’t get it out of their system, the spare key, the bickering, the aching fondness, the presence by his side as he stood at the top of the world, and the presence by his side even now as he stands at crossroads. 

“Ah,” he says. 

“Ah,” Reon agrees. “Only took you like a decade.”

\--

“You didn’t have to wait until I retired.”

“Idiot,” Oikawa rolls his eyes, but it’s the way he says it, tongue curling around the syllables with so much affection that it makes Ushijima long to close the distance. They’ve spent too much time holding themselves a shoulder-width apart. “I’d been waiting so long, what was a bit more? I thought it’d help. This way you didn’t have to say, it’d be bad for the team or some asinine thing like that. I wasn’t sure if I could hear that from you.”

“I’m sorry,” Ushijima whispers, and hopes to god Oikawa will understand he means that from the hollow of his heart. 

“Don’t be,” Oikawa says crossly, butting their foreheads together. “I didn't have to wait, and you didn't have to take that job closer to my place than yours. I didn't have to coach at your alma mater, and you didn't have to buy me milk bread every week. It’s not about keeping score between the two of us.”

Not about keeping score, not about weaknesses, not about winning or losing, not even about volleyball. “Hasn’t been for a long time,” Ushijima confirms. He feels warmth settle in his bones, melting all the aches away, and all of a sudden he's wild and young and at the top of the world once more. 

Oikawa’s smile is beautiful, like sunlight glinting of fresh dew on the morning flowers. “Now you’re getting it. I told you we’d figure this out.”

“Yes,” Ushijima says, and he leans forward finally, yearning to taste. Oikawa’s been so very patient with him, but he doesn’t kiss like a patient man. He’s insistent, hungry, pressing against Ushijima as if trying to wrap and weave their very beings together. Ushijima doesn’t think he’s loved anything as much as he does Oikawa now, can’t fathom loving anything else this way. He can see now, what retirement can be for them; all the glorious, wonderful things it _will_ be. 

“Come on,” Oikawa says hoarsely. He has one hand around Ushijima’s neck, one hand cradling his cheek like Ushijima’s something precious. His touch is the wave that breaks, and Ushijima shudders apart under the depth of feeling, spreading through him like surf on the shore. “Come to bed, Wakatoshi.”

Ushijima clings on—will cling on forever, he knows it—and follows.

**Author's Note:**

> If someone (me) wrote a fic about these two growing old together it'd be bicker bicker i love you that's it that'd be the fic.


End file.
